like you have no secrets
by hale-and-hearty
Summary: "Alex, where are you going? Tell me you're not going to Cairo." "Okay," Alex answers, letting himself back out the front door, "I'm not going to Cairo." He catches the earliest flight to Cairo out of Heathrow, anyways. / Alex gets a mysterious email. We all know by now how this ends. / part eight of my "homes out of human beings" verse


**AN: I honestly never** **thought** **I'd continue this series, but here we are. I'm a lot older and I've written like two novels since the last installment and I'm pretty sure my writing style has developed a lot, so I'm acknowledging that the last installment of this was terrible, and I'm also acknowledging that if I rewrite it, I'll never actually finish the series, so I'm moving on. Pretend it never happened or pretend something more intelligent and better written happened. Maybe in another year it'll bother me enough to fix it but probably not. Anyways, enjoy the long awaited return of homes out of human beings !**

* * *

The email comes on a Tuesday, and Alex almost ignores it.

He doesn't use this address anymore; he stopped using it shortly after moving to America the second time, when he got a new address for school and then began using that one for everything else, too. He keeps the old address and checks it sometimes, but only to clear out his spam folder and, occasionally, reread old emails from Ian and Jack, the former who would write Alex while he was away on "business trips," and the latter who would always forward those chain emails to Alex because she thought they were funny. So when Alex's phone buzzes with the email at work, it's notable, but not enough for Alex to stop what he's doing to read it. He doesn't recognize the address and no one emails that address anymore, anyways, so it's probably just spam that made it into his regular inbox by mistake.

He reads it, anyways, after the pub has closed and he and Tim, the other bartender, have finished cleaning up and cleared out for the night. They part ways when Tim gets on the Tube and Alex keeps walking, and Tim calls out the usual reminder to be safe and text when he gets home. Tim is only fifteen years older than Alex, but he treats Alex like a son, and it's a little annoying but more than anything it gives Alex a sense of warmth. There haven't been a lot of people looking out for Alex since Mary left, and it's nice to have someone who isn't involved in any way in the mess at 221B Baker Street caring for him.

He gets home-not 221B, because that was another life, too-and shrugs off his jacket, leaving it draped over the back of the couch. He showers and the sweat and grime of the day wash away, along with the smell of beer and axe body spray. When he's done, he finds a crumpled receipt in the back pocket of jeans, and looks at the number scrawled on the back and the masculine handwriting, and throws the receipt away. Ashley told him flat out when she hired him that it was good for business in a gay bar to have someone so young and attractive with an "ambiguous sexuality thing going for you", and that was why she hired him. Alex had applied mostly because he knew John would think it was funny, and he never expected to get hired. Or to like it as much as he does. Or, you know, to get hit on so much. He's nineteen and it's doing wonders for his ego, but it's also a little awkward when men twice his age ask if he'll dom them. He's taken to pretending he doesn't know what that means and saying he'll ask Tim, the manager, about it to see what they can do. It usually works as far as getting the men to back off.

It's later, when Alex is finally in bed and checking his phone one last time, that he remembers the email. There's no subject line and the address isn't familiar and Alex isn't sure why he doesn't just delete it, except that he's curious. Maybe it's important or maybe it's not. Maybe it's Mary, even though that seems unlikely, because she's never emailed him before and he doubts she'd start now that she's on the run. But maybe it's Yassen, even if he prefers to just drop into Alex's apartment when he's in town rather than writing.

His heart stops when he opens the email.

ALEXX,

I'M AL

* * *

In another life, Alex could have done this on his own, and in this life, he still almost does. But what's the point in knowing a world-renowned consulting detective if they don't help you when you need them?

He lets himself into 221B with his laptop under his arm, his keys in one had and a coffee in the other (maybe his time in America affected him more than he thought), and hollers, "I'm coming in," because last time he showed up unannounced he got an eyeful of something he doesn't want a repeat of. But John and Sherlock are on opposite ends of the flat when he comes in, John with the paper at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating breakfast, and Sherlock in the living room with his laptop and a mountain of papers around him, all over the floor and stacked up on the desk around his laptop.

John looks up with arched brows. "Shouldn't you be in class right now?"

Alex brushes off his concern with a wave of his hand. "Be glad I came first thing in the morning instead of in the middle of the night, when I wanted to come." He was up all night, anyways, wondering and worrying and checking his email a thousand times over for any indication of a previous email. There was nothing to be found, but he couldn't sleep anyways. He brushes into the living room and stands above Sherlock, laptop in hand, waiting to be acknowledged. It takes a moment, like it always does, before Sherlock looks up.

"What?" he snaps, and then his gaze zeroes in on the laptop and he looks more alert when he asks, "Case?"

"Maybe," Alex admits, and without another word Sherlock pushes an entire stack of papers to the floor to make room for Alex to set his laptop down. Alex boots it up and logs into his email, and then, after pulling it up, he shows it to Sherlock and says, "I need you to find out where this email came from."

Sherlock reads it, frowning, and starts rapidly typing until code comes running across the screen. "What's the significance of the email?" Sherlock asks without looking up.

Alex is quiet, and startles when John's hand lands on his shoulder. Alex has long been taller than John, but in this moment he feels young and small, and he takes one look at John's soft and encouraging face and his voice cracks as he says, "I think it's Jack. I think she's alive."

There's a beat of silence. Then, John says, "I'd tell you not to get your hopes up, but." He gives a meaningful look to Sherlock, who is oblivious to the conversation they're having. "Why do you think it's her?"

"The way she wrote my name," Alex admits, voice low. "Alexx. With two x's. She always wrote it like that-my name, and a kiss." Emotion colours his voice and he's embarrassed. He's never spoken about Jack with John and Sherlock, beyond giving a brief explanation of her role in his life. Until now, he'd thought she was dead. There was no point in reliving her death.

Sherlock makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and his fingers still as he looks up at them. "I can't track it," he admits, and he sounds pissed off, annoyed, far from defeated as he glares at the screen. "The signal keeps bouncing. Limu, France, Cairo, Wales…"

"Cairo," Alex repeats, feeling his blood run cold. It could be a coincidence, but then, Alex doesn't believe in coincidences. That was the last place Alex saw her, the place she died, so if she's there-even if she's not there, it makes sense to start there. It's been four years since she died. If she's still alive, surely she left a trail.

"Okay," Alex decides, even though neither John nor Sherlock have spoken. "Thank you." He picks up his laptop and shuts it, and then turns to leave. John's voice calls after him, stopping him.

"Alex, where are you going? Tell me you're not going to Cairo."

"Okay," Alex answers, letting himself back out the front door, "I'm not going to Cairo."

He catches the earliest flight to Cairo out of Heathrow, anyways, because if there's any chance Jack is truly alive and sent that email, then he has to go find her. That's all there is to it. Jack is alive, so he has to go.

* * *

It's Alex, so of course John isn't _surprised_ to find that he's gone to Cairo despite explicitly telling John he wasn't, but that doesn't mean John is any less annoyed. Sherlock goes after Alex when John can't get away from work and sends updates, but there's little Sherlock can do after discovering Alex has already left the country. There's no trace of where he's gone. Sherlock comes back to London, and tells John not to worry, he has a feeling Alex can take care of himself.

John worries anyways. He's still not sure, after all these years, who Alex was before he was theirs, but the confidence Alex had that his housekeeper was still alive worried him. Partially because John hadn't known for sure, up until now, that his housekeeper had died, but partially because Alex has been inexplicably lucky to have Sherlock and Yassen (however the man may be connected to Alex) thought dead and then returned to life. John worries Alex is getting his hopes up because it's happened before that he's lost someone and gotten them back, and he doesn't want Alex to get hurt if it comes out that his housekeeper isn't really alive after all.

Nearly two months pass, but Alex _does_ come back, and miraculously, he brings his housekeeper with him.

* * *

Alex can't stop looking at her. He's had time to adjust to the idea of Jack being alive, and after spending the last few days with her, first in the Grimaldi brothers' compound and then in MI6's headquarters being questioned and debriefed, he shouldn't be affected by it anymore. But he can't stop looking at her.

The same red curls, longer now than she ever let them get before, almost to her hips. The same pale, freckled skin, with one noticeable mole on her neck that she always hated. The same athletic build and long legs. The same green eyes-but not the same, because they're harder now, not shiny like they were before. It's been four years since Alex last saw her, and she's spent that time in captivity, forced to do things she never would have otherwise.

The years have not been kind to her. They haven't been kind to Alex, either.

They spend a week together in Alex's house in Chelsea. It's been entirely untouched in the past few years, sitting and waiting for someone to make it into a home again. Realtors have been reaching out to Alex for months, begging him to consider selling, and most of the time he just deletes the voicemails and moves on. He hasn't had a desire to live in Chelsea for years, but he hasn't wanted to sell, either. It's a house of ghosts and Alex couldn't ever bear to let them rest.

Jack comes downstairs the first morning with a pair of rusty scissors and a frown on her face. "I can't find my quilt," she says, looking around the house, looking lost. "It was always on my bed."

Alex blinks. "It's on my bed now," he says, and when she looks at him there's no expression on her face. "In my flat. I took it with me."

A slow smile spreads across Jack's face, and for the first time since her return, she feels less like a stranger. "Oh, Alex," she says, her eyes misting, and then she takes a deep breath and pushes the thick, long wave of her curly hair over her shoulder, and holds out the scissors to him, where he's drinking coffee at the counter. "Cut my hair for me?"

Alex has never cut hair before, so her locks fall to the floor in uneven lengths and Jack's smile gets brighter with each cut. In the end, it's a lopsided, short pixie, and Jack is beaming.

"It's asymmetrical," she says, running her fingers through it. She eyes Alex's hair over her shoulder in the bathroom mirror. "You need a cut, too. I've never seen your hair this messy."

Alex makes a face. "You're not touching my hair."

"Aleeeeex," she whines, brandishing her scissors, and they're both laughing as she chases him around the house, yelling at him to come back and let her fix his hair.

It feels like everything is back to normal, and it feels good. Jack talks about repainting, and fixing up some cracks in the walls, and mentions getting a plumber to come look at the upstairs shower because the water pressure is so low.

It's been eight days and there's food in the fridge and the television is working again when Jack comes into the kitchen where Alex is cooking, holding out his phone with a frown. "Someone named John keeps calling," she says, and then there's a teasing lilt in her voice when she adds, "He keeps asking when you're coming home. Is he your boyfriend?"

Alex gags. "John is _married_. And anyways, they're like my dads."

Jack blinks. "Wasn't your real dad named John?"

"Yeah," Alex says. "When I replace people, I do it right."

Jack snorts. Then, she stands in silence while Alex carefully slices chicken breast. Finally, she says, "You should call him back. Or at least text him."

Alex is quiet, focused on the chicken. Jack says, "Alex," in her stern mothering voice, and Alex sighs.

"I'm going to call him," he says, setting down the knife, "Just...later. When we've figured this out."

"Alex." She's got her hands on her hips when he looks up at her, and he flinches. Even after all these years, she still makes him feel like a little kid in trouble. "You had a whole life while I was gone. You still have one. Don't hole yourself up here with me. You're in school, aren't you? And you have a job, and you've got friends and people who love you. You don't have to just hide here with me. I'll be fine."

It's not about Jack. Or, not about worrying about her, anyways. He just doesn't want to be away from her again, not when he's finally got her back.

"Come with me," he says instead. "See my flat, meet John and Sherlock… You'll like John. He worries too much, too."

Jack laughs.

* * *

Alex lets himself into 221B with Jack close on his heels, engaged in a story about the unhelpful grocer from earlier this morning who she's pretty sure was actually high on shift.

"So I said, 'Excuse me? I just need to find some sourdough bread. Either you have some or you don't.' And you know what he said to me?"

"What?" Alex asks, amused even if he's only half-listening.

"He said, 'I don't get paid enough for this.' And then he just took off his work shirt and walked out of the store!"

John is on the couch with his laptop, and Sherlock is in his chair nearby, one hand stretched across the space between them to curl his fingers in the sleeve of John's shirt, eyes glued to the pages of whatever book he's currently reading. It's a surprisingly domestic moment for them.

John looks up first and says, "You don't write, you don't call, you don't leave a note, and we have to find out from Mycroft that you're not dead. What the hell, Alex?"

Alex gestures to Jack and can't help the warm affection seeping in his gut. Jack was his family first, but John and Sherlock are his family now, and it feels so good to be home.

"I found Jack."

"Yes, I noticed that," John retorts hotly. "I don't have to be bloody Sherlock Holmes to see that!"

Sherlock's fingers tighten in John's shirtsleeve. It's this minute, tiny gesture, but it seems to calm John instantly. Finally, Sherlock looks up from the book, and says, "Cairo is very hot and very dry. If nothing else, you should apologize to _me_ , because John sent me after you in his worry."

Alex is so overcome with love that it's honestly embarrassing. Jack says, "Sorry, that was my fault. Alex was a real badass back in the day, I knew he'd come save me if I could just get word to him I was still alive."

"Back in the day?" Alex repeats, incredulous, turning to face her. "As if I'm not now?"

Jack nods sagely in agreement. "Old age took away your edge. You can't be MI6's most valuable teenaged asset if you're not even a teenager anymore."

There's a beat. Jack looks at Sherlock and John, realizes what she said, and says, "Oh, shit, they don't know?"

"Well," Alex says dryly, " _Now_ they know."

* * *

Sherlock is mostly annoyed that he hadn't figured it out sooner, considering the clues Alex had dropped and the fact that Alex had told them, flat out, that he was a teenaged spy before. John is the one who is most awed and, truthfully, hurt by the truth.

"You let me believe you were in a gang for years," he says at the kitchen table, frowning. Jack and Sherlock are in the other room bickering over something or other, and Alex is making tea. "You had so many chances. Even when Mary-" He cuts himself off. Mary is still a sore subject, all these months later, but maybe that's more because John lost his best friend than it is because she lies.

"I did try to tell you," Alex says, shrugging. "You didn't believe me."

John squints at him. "You didn't try very hard to convince me."

Which is fair. Alex places his hands flat on the table and says, "When I was fourteen, my uncle died, and I found out he was a spy. Then MI6 found out about _me_. I worked for them until Jack died. I was their most valuable asset."

There's a lot more to the story, but Alex isn't sure John is or ever will be ready to hear it. Maybe it's easier if Alex never tells him.

But John sits back in his chair and grips his fingers around his mug of tea and says, "MI6 used a child to do their dirty work? I shouldn't be surprised, having met Mycroft, but I am."

"It was convenient," Alex says, rolling his eyes. "The supervillains were very Bond and it was all very exciting, torture and car chases and guns. Pretty much exactly what you'd expect."

John laughs. "You compare yourself to Bond, don't you?"

Alex grins with all his teeth. "I like to think I'm better than Bond."

They both laugh. In the living room, Jack has her hands on her hips and is telling Sherlock off, and Sherlock is rolling his eyes and mouthing off like a bratty child, and Alex thinks they're all going to be all right. Everything is finally right.

* * *

 ** _fin._**

 **Is anyone still reading this after two years? I hope this installment was worth the wait and also that the reveal (finally!) of who Alex was is everything you hoped it would be !**


End file.
